


walk on the wild side

by ficfucker



Category: Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker
Summary: a night in a hotel with tyler
Relationships: Tyler Durden/Narrator
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	walk on the wild side

Tyler and I are in a hotel for the night because Marla's mad at us again.

Marla dragged the ash and smoke of a cigarette into her mouth and in a puff of nicotine, told me I needed to focus more on my inner emotional maturity if we were going to make things work.

I was in the kitchen then, thinking about the fat and tallow in the refrigerator. I was thumbing through an ancient National Geographic, the pages warped and sticking together from getting wet at some point. Some of the ink had leeched out, leaving the photos of naked natives and dead animals bleached.

I didn't respond because I didn't want to talk to Marla about anything. Certainly not emotions.

If she wanted to see Tyler and twist his ear off and toss it out the window because he was distant and shallow, she was more than welcome to, but I wasn't getting dragged into their fuck buddy issues.

Marla got mad because I essentially gave her the silent treatment.

Marla said no one on earth loved her like I did and she didn't even have the evidence to convince a jury of it and I wasn't helping her prove her case.

Marla got madder and madder until the Nat Geo I was reading got ripped from my hands, slicing long, straight lines into both my palms. The pages went through me easy as the blade of a good knife. I looked dumbly down at my hands, welling with small, fat beads of blood.

I figured it was time for me to get out of there.

So I left Marla, at Tyler's house, the bloody and crumpled magazine clenched in her fist.

"If you ask anyone who's been shot and lived to tell the tale," Tyler says, padding around the small hotel room, looking in the miniature refrigerator, "they'll tell you a papercut hurts worse than a bullet."

"You should talk to Marla sometime," I say. "I'm sick of her telling me about problems between you two."

"People don't even think about it, but a bullet's hot when it enters you," Tyler says, flopping down on the queen sized bed.

Tyler says, "A smoking barrel is hot enough to light a cigarette off of."

Tyler says, "What's worse than a papercut is getting a finger bitten off."

It's easy as biting through a carrot. Easy as the pages of a magazine through the surprised flesh of the palms.

I sit on the edge of the bed and take off my shoes and go into the bathroom to change the bandages on my hands.

I signed in at the front desk as a different name. Not Jack, not any of the names I used at meetings, either.

Tyler said using a name Marla might know meant she could snoop around every hotel in a twenty mile radius for the night and find me and give me something much more worse than a paper cut.

So I gave a fake name and took my key with its little plastic tag stamped with the hotel name in gold paint and went to my room.

Tyler came in from a window.

Or something like that.

A lot of the time, Tyler ends up in the room without me even knowing how he got there.

It saved money, booking for one and sneaking the other in.

I unwind the bloody bandages and set them in the trash, looking like crumpled paper straw wrappers.

The cuts don't bleed too much but with the movement of the palm, they open back up frequently. It stings when that happens.

I'm looking for bandages in the small hotel bathroom when Tyler comes up behind me and presses himself to my back.

This has been a thing for a while now.

Tyler says he and Marla aren't exclusive.

And besides, I've already promised three times not to talk to Marla about him and or he'll vanish forever, so even if they were boyfriend-girlfriend, I wouldn't open my mouth and ruin it for all of us.

Tyler bites my neck in a way that makes my knees feel weak and I tell him to knock it off.

"I can't find any bandages."

"Papercuts don't need to be bandaged." Tyler's got a shadow of facial hair and it scrapes nicely along my throat as he kisses down to my collarbone.

"I don't want to bleed onto the sheets."

Tyler's hands creep down to my waist band and a shiver of lightning bolts up my spine. That same excited feeling you get when you're next up to bat at fight club.

"Bleeding means you're alive," Tyler murmurs. His left hand dips into the front of my pants, over my underwear.

"Typically, mafia members use .22s to stop the heart without causing an exit wound," Tyler says. "With the heart stopped, they hang a hit upside down in a shower stall. Slit his throat. They bleed him out like field dressed deer."

My hips lead forward to chase Tyler's feather light touch.

"You could be field dressed in a shower stall waiting to be stuffed into an oil drum and shipped to Japan," Tyler says, squeezing my half chub.

"I think that's what Marla wants to do to us," I say. I'm gripping the edges of the sink now and it makes my palms sting. I've stopped looking for bandages.

At the front desk, the clerk had given me a long, cautious look when I reached into my wallet to pay with cash for my one night stay. I could tell he was studying the plum colored shiners over both my eyes a bit bigger than half dollars. The chunk cut neatly out of my bottom lip.

Maybe he thought I was involved in drug running.

Maybe he thought I was going to paint my brains onto the ceiling above the bathtub.

When I handed over the money in trade for the key, the man saw the cuts on my palms.

"Are you going to give me anything here or am I supposed to hotdog your ass over the sink?"

I bring myself back to the present and turn myself around so I'm facing Tyler and I shove him by the chest. He stumbles out of the bathroom.

I tell him I'll give him something and Tyler breaks out into an excited, childish grin.

Tyler and I clasp onto each other like bucks locking antlers. We rattle each other around until we crab walk over to the bed and wrestle there. Tyler keeps digging his fingers into my sides like he's trying to pinch me, trying to tickle me, and I'm writhing under him, red in the face, my bottom lip throbbing as I grab at his wrists.

Through wheezes, I tell him we shouldn't get so rowdy because I only got a room for one and if neighbors complain, we'll get kicked out.

"It's a draw then," Tyler says. He flops down and dead weights on top of me. I can feel Tyler's warm, almost hard genitals pressed to my thigh.

I want to put my arms around Tyler, but I don't. We're not so much a couple, rather friends who beat each other up as stress relief, and sometimes rough sex falls into that same category of blowing off steam.

The first time Tyler and I did anything together, he asked, “What’s the difference between getting beat up and beat off?”

_Where they lay their hands._

I'm in my head again. I'm thinking about buying new black pants when Tyler gets paid for his last soap shipment, black pants that don't have bloodstains my boss can't stomach.

Tyler bites my neck to anchor me back down to earth and it works.

I dig my nails into his back and tell him he should be apologizing to Marla, not trying to get into my pants.

"Do now and apologize when you're caught," Tyler says into my throat.

"We're caught," I argue. I run my short nails down the slope of Tyler's shoulder blades, ice-skating red lines into him from over his shirt.

Tyler sits up to shuck off my shirt. "You're only caught when you're dead." He leans down in pull up position and latches his mouth around my right nipple and bites, hard.

I whine. "I think Marla's gonna make that a reality soon."

Tyler unhooks himself from my nipple and we're connected by a thin, translucent thread of his saliva for a half second. "Don't fuckin' talk to me about Marla anymore."

My nipple has a perfect ring of pink teeth marks around it, a very small shark bite.

I don't talk about Marla.

Tyler tongues his way down to my pants, pausing to hoover hickies all along my torso like crushed rose petals. He wriggles down my pants and I lift my hips so he can get them the whole way off. My boxers come off with them.

Tyler sits up and pulls his own shirt off, a pale yellow tee with the words JUICY FRUIT printed over the chest. He starts to hum Lou Reed's 'Walk on the Wild Side'.

When Tyler leans back down to kiss me or touch me or do whatever to me, I snake my right arm up and Hollywood choke him. I lay my thumb down hard on the side of his neck, right under the hard block of his jaw.

I used to be such a nice person.

Tyler's nostrils flare like a rearing horse and he drives his fist into my bare chest, over and over, until I let go of his neck to cover myself.

Tyler's knocked the wind out of me.

Tyler flops down on the bed and gets his arms around me and tactile chokes me, my head locked in place between the bulging muscle of his bicep and the hard bar of his forearm.

My head swims. I'm already lightheaded from getting hit boxing-hard in the chest and now my fingernails claw uselessly at Tyler's arm, my vision spotting like a burning film reel. It makes my dick hard. Springs up like a jack-in-the-box puppet.

Choking has been the cure for erectile disfunction since the dark ages.

Choking is what causes some executions to result in erections standing stiff at the gallows while their owners swing in the breeze.

I tap out.

Fight club rules.

Tyler lets go and I slump limp so my head's in his lap, near his erection that flags tall through his boxers.

Neither of us can really get excited or get it up without some violence as foreplay.

Sometimes, you build a tolerance to things.

Masturbation feels as mundane as pissing when you know how good it feels to get knocked around in a basement.

Sex is as boring as masturbation when you know how good it feels to be choked and belted and driving your partner into the wall.

Tyler yanks down the front of his boxers enough that' he's exposed. He grabs a fistful of my hair and I don't need a word to know what's expected of me. I open my mouth and choke him down like bitter cough syrup. His cock slides warmly down my throat. I've gotten good at flaring my nostrils and relaxing my jaw.

Tyler forces my head up and down. The gagging sounds I make are pornographic and involuntary.

Tyler snaps his hips up like the pumping of a piston.

Tyler grunts and huffs.

Tyler pulls me off his dick and yanks me up to shove his tongue into my mouth. He feels cold, compared to how warm his junk is.

I moan and it's feminine and I know Tyler likes that.

Tyler slides his arms under my armpits and lifts me, slings me around so I'm flat on the bed. I assume the position. I lift my legs to my chest. My thighs are shuddering in anticipation.

"Fucking and fighting are so close to each other, it's hard to tell where one stops and the next begins," he muses.

"I think we covered that one last time," I say, waiting.

"I'll say it again, Psycho Boy." Tyler spits in his palm and lathers it over his cock. "I bash your head in until you submit and that's how God intended it."

"Don't sound so romantic."

Tyler drags the head of his cock over my asshole and I suck in a breath. I know it's going to burn because Tyler doesn't believe in things like Vaseline or even cooking oil.

Tyler's philosophy is that if your body needed it, it'd have made it.

That means spit is lube between us.

"Don't get fucking smart with me."

And with that, Tyler unceremoniously spears his cock into me like a toothpick through a $12 quarter inch cube of cheese.

I bite down so hard on my tongue, it spurts blood against the roof of my mouth.

Tyler starts thrusting his hips fiercely and I try my best to take it and be quiet.

"Open your mouth," Tyler says.

I open my mouth.

Tyler spits into my mouth and it's gross and I let him. I accept it willingly while he drills into my ass like he's getting paid to do it. I can almost imagine the unnatural lights glaring down over use, similar to the ones used at buffets to keep the food warm while sitting out and getting stale or soggy. Men behind the camera.

They wouldn't need to direct Tyler. He'd give an audience everything they could ask for.

He hits a certain spot and I squeal.

"Obedient fucking bitch," Tyler grunts. He starts slapping my face side to side, almost light enough it doesn't really hurt. "Isn't that right? You take what you get. You take what you get because you know you deserve it."

My thigh twitches and it cramps down to my foot. I loll my head into the cheap motel pillows and my mouth gapes like the flaps of a stomach slashed open by a knife. "I deserve it, Tyler," I gasp.

I used to be such a nice person.

"Damn right you fucking do." Tyler smacks me harder and I moan in response. His cock presses on my prostate and my dick gurgles precum all over my lower stomach.

The bed is rocking beneath us. I reach up to dig my nails into whatever spot on Tyler I can reach and my palms rip open again. Little rivers of blood start to spiral down my wrists and Tyler takes notice. He grabs my arm and licks the blood clean.

I shiver. My dick leaps. I moan like I'm in heat.

Tyler hoists my legs up higher, drops my arm away so my hand smears blood over the off-white sheets. Exactly what I didn't want to do.

Everything inside me is coiled hot and ready to snap.

Tyler tightens up and he leans forward to lick into my mouth. It strains my thighs, how high they're pushed up into my chest. I crane my neck up to chase it. A bead of blood escapes from the corner of my mouth and Tyler licks that away, too.

He cums inside me while he bites my bottom lip. It's grossly personal and somehow devoid of any intimacy. My balls clench and I shoot all over myself. I sag and whimper into Tyler's mouth as he backs away from me, sliding out.

Tyler flops down next to me. He doesn't bother to clean anything up and I know that means he intends to go at it again tonight.

I am Jack's sore asshole.

I am Jack's split open tongue.

Tyler lights a cigarette and after some pulls, he passes it to me.

I exhale smoke and open my mouth to speak.

Tyler speaks before I do. "You talk about Marla again and I'll reach into your guts and pull your intestines out like rope."

I don't talk about Marla. I smoke Tyler's cigarette and feel his cum ooze out of my ass. The high of orgasm pairs well with the sharp pain of each piece of me that's bleeding.

"Bleeding means you're alive," Tyler hums.

**Author's Note:**

> i just think tyler would look nice in pale yellow


End file.
